The Ultimate Disappointment

The following is a rant I wrote for my funniest writer friend, Imogen, who asked me to guest star (that's right, I said guest star) on her blog, http://imogenthinksalot.blogspot.co.uk

Thank you to Imogen for the content prompt; of all the titles she gave me I, of course, chose the one that sounded the most bitter. Enjoy, share, roll your eyes, whatever.

It is the ultimate disappointment to log on to LinkedIn and find the idiots you went to school with are now financiers in The City earning about triple your salary. Or to log in to Facebook to see gloriously tanned “friends” jet-setting around the world getting paid to write, or do PR, or work on TV shows. Or the fellow dancers that you trained with who are now gorgeous and muscled and have long since surpassed you in talent, now treading the board in West End theatres or filming music videos in the desert.

It is the ultimate disappointment to find that you're such a jealous person. The ultimate disappointment is to be disappointed in yourself.

Me? I wanted to be a choreographer or a male Carrie Bradshaw writing for Gay Times. Instead, I work in a firmly uncreative job but for a company I love, in a buzzing office where I've made some great friends and have some real opportunities ahead of me. And yet every day, while glaring at my Excel spreadsheets, I curse myself that I'm not the next Hofesh Shechter or hopping out of my apartment with a leather satchel on my way to writing a tell-all piece on being a fabulous 20-something homosexual.

Were my dreams unrealistic? Perhaps, a little. But do I still regret some of the choices that led me here instead of there? Definitely.

I look to my left and see friends buying houses, while I stare at my Natwest app and weep a little. I look to my right and see friends dancing away at LA festivals, or wandering around European cities and wonder how the hell they afforded their plane ticket. I look on Instagram and see previously podgy friends now rocking great arms and a six pack (that one sucks a lot). I look at myself and think…James you're doing none of that. You're just floundering.

And this is the curse of your 20s. Trapped between “I should grow up and start saving for future me” and “fuck this I'm young, I don't want to look back on my youth and think I wasted it!” Continual questions flood my already over-processing mind. Questions such as: Should I pack it all in, think about a grown up job sometime in the future, and run off to do the tour around America I’m desperate for? Or do I stick at the career, work my way up, get on the property ladder and just try to make an effort to do more interesting things with my weekends? Should I completely push my style boundaries and wear some on-trend outfits that turn heads? Or do I stick with what I know because I look good in it? Should I be taking more photos to document every move I make? Or do I stick in this weird middle ground where I half-heartedly hashtag my photos with #instagay so that I get ten more likes, for a purpose that I’m still not quite sure of? In this do-it-put-it-on-Facebook world, where it’s absolutely common and acceptable to see the woman next to you at the hairdressers take a selfie of her hair being shampooed (I mean genuinely who gives a shit?), it’s hard to shake the feeling that you’re not keeping up, despite the fact that many people reading this will be nodding their heads in agreement.

I will always be grateful for the ability to make friends easily, where others wallow in social awkwardness. I will always be appreciative of having a good education (should I choose to use it one day) where others struggle with words. I will always be comforted by my many siblings and that I get along with them all so well, where others wonder how they even share the same gene pool as theirs. I will certainly look around me and be thankful for my lot…but if all you tanned, successful, well-travelled, creative friends could fuck off and live your fabulous lives away from The Gram, that would be great. Ta.

How to Win a Sample Sale War

With my crotch pressed firmly against an HR Advisor’s backside, the screams of pent up frustration filling the air and a plethora of arms and legs flying at each other in rage, I grab blindly at anything I can see and wonder if there isn't a more intense moment in life than this. But this isn’t a scene from an even more poorly written Mr Grey story. This is real life. This is a real war. This is a sample sale.

Remember the episode in Friends where the girls go to the wedding dress sample sale? Well when I say sample sale you may be thinking of that. But you’d be wrong. For starters, there’s only one fight. And how hilarious to think you can approach a sample sale with a method; if they tried that shit with one of ours I’d be like, “Monica, babes, save your breath, save your energy. Ain’t nobody got time for whistles”

Should you be facing your first sample sale, be it work or a high street store, take note of the below and you’ll be the Napoleon of 50p bargain hunts in no time. See you in there!

Except you won't see me in there because if I lose a tug of war over a Moleskin diary due to your insistence on waving at me, shit will go down.

“There’s no I in team. We can do it if we stick together!”
HA! NO. IT’S EVERY MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD FOR THEMSELVES. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TALK TO YOUR FRIEND MIDWAY OR I WILL THROW YOU OVER THE NEAREST BOX OF CHRISTMAS CARDS.

“Dignity, always dignity”
What the fuck is dignity? This is no time for pride! This is no time to worry about what you look like to your colleagues! You start worrying about that and the nearest lurker will swoop on that nice pair of mis-matching Brogues you’re taking an age to mull over. Don’t bother doing your hair that day. It’s going to get ripped out anyway.

“Take your time; slow and steady wins the race”
Nope. It’s a smash and grab situation here, people. Take everything your arms can carry, hook a few dresses over your forearm and then get a friend to pile on some more. Think less “Victoria Beckham takes Harper for casual stroll through Burberry” and more “Mother of six goes nuts in an Asda Black Friday price slash” Once you’ve picked up everything that remotely caught your eye, take yourself off to a corner and rummage through your hoard like Golem.  Feeling like a monster? See above.

“You never know if you never try”
Listen, I once witnessed a grown man cowering in the corner of a photography room with his eyes darting about wildly as he wondered how the hell he was going to get out from underneath the mass of clothes that had been vetoed in a cull. Okay, I’ll admit, I only noticed him because I realised my “no” pile had grown two shaking arms and a pair of teary eyes but my point is that if you don’t think you can handle it; do everyone a favour and take that “never try” option. Some of us rely on this for extra cardio.

“Less is more”

Oh don’t be ridiculous, no it is not. If somebody offered you a wheelbarrow full of cash you wouldn’t say “oh no, knock a couple of grand off so I don’t look as needy” You’re paying 50p for a pair of shoes; £1 for a jacket currently sat on a shop floor at £39.99; you’re paying 2p for a pink phone case with a cat wearing sunglasses! Somebody’s going to want that! Of course you can pull off a size XL tweed blazer, just wear it “oversized” around the Northern Quarter or Shoreditch and you’ll be serving 80s realness for days! You’re set for shit-but-pricey presents until the end of the year so just throw the lot in a bag and sort it out when you get home. Don’t be selfish: there’s folks living on the street out there who would kill for a glittery Jesus money box and yes, I genuinely bought that.

Interim: A Reflection on London

Celebrities I’ve thought I’ve seen since moving to London:
- Thierry Henry crossing the road outside ‘Bend it Like Beckham The Musical’
- Jennifer Lawrence outside TCR tube station, sporting robot-from-the-future sunglasses and gym leggings
- Daenerys Targaryen walking up Charing Cross Road. (Not Emilia Clarke; actual Daenerys)
- A fat Ed Sheeran drinking with friends outside a pub in Soho.


Celebrities I’ve actually seen since moving to London:
- Angelina Jolie shopping in Paperchase. Freak.Out
- MORIARTY! He looked into my soul with sad, hungover eyes.
- The bitch from My Mad Fat Diary/home wrecker in Dr Foster

Celebrities I may have seen since moving to London:
- Nick Grimshaw. Apparently he was in the general vicinity of Greek Street the night I was falling out of Be At One and straight into a lamppost on my way home. He might have seen me so that counts.

Fascinating homeless people I’ve experienced in London:
- A man (still uncertain on actual homelessness) lying face down next to a pedestrian crossing clutching a glossy brown wig.
- A busker holding a saxophone but making the noises himself, acapella style, rather than actually knowing how to play.
- Three young men singing a selection of west end hits outside The Commitments (again, still unsure of homelessness vs open-air audition)
- A Jamaican man serenading an alfresco diner with a mega mix of Waiting in Vain, Caribbean Queen and Day-O outside a café on Charlotte Street.

Places I’ve nearly been mowed down by a taxi in London:
- Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square, Charing Cross Station, The Strand, Old Compton Street, halfway down Kings Road whilst listening to the Made in Chelsea theme tune and pretending to be in Made in Chelsea.

Moments of uninhibited, uncontrollable tourist-induced street rage:
- Infinite. Ongoing. Continual

Number of times I’ve been smiling with excitement then inhaled, through the mouth, the stomach churning, rancid stench of stale tramp piss:
- See above

Asking for it...?

Picture this: I'm standing in a field so vast, with storm clouds so heavy, that I look like I'm in the Deep South. I’m trying in vain to find somewhere to sit out of the rain whilst listening to a friend regale me with stories of her upcoming fashion show and watching a bat circle my head like a teeny tiny vulture. Never before have I felt such a contrast of old life vs new life. Country vs city. Which feels weird considering six years ago it was the other way around. With this new move to my home town (living with the parents, working in London) come the memories I have of living in it. That and the fact that my brother has now started at the same school where some of the strongest of memories were created in.

I’m often attributed with confidence by those closest to me - and quite often people I’ve just met – because regardless of any words being spoken in my direction, hell regardless of any eye contact, I'll get my way into any conversation I’m otherwise sat on the edge of, instead of feeling quietly awkward and starting to sweat at the thought of blank stares as responses. Why? Not just because of a childhood spent in dance classes but because I refuse to be stay silent again (I know, I'm so Angela Bassett in 'What's Love Got to Do With It?') For those closest to me I’m sure the idea of me being quiet is absolutely alien but in my school days I would often be crowded around by a group of boys, on the bus or in the playground, being asked simply to speak just so they could all laugh at my voice. It’s difficult to admit, because I hate the thought that those reading this will think I’m fishing for sympathy, but by Year 9 I was openly carrying a pair of scissor with me to school – not even so that I could self harm, just as an attempt for the bullies to think I was and maybe leave me alone! Sadly I don’t think this ever did actually work.

As more female celebrities are pictured topless and baring the slogan “still not asking for it” in an attempt to change minds about the rationalising of rape, I think about the many times I’ve told a story of my behaviour in school and been met with the same line. In no way am I comparing my experience to the horror of being raped but it's interesting that “well then you were just asking for it!” statement can be found as a blanket line to cover all strains of inexcusable human behaviour. “My friend and I used to run around the picnic benches playing Desperate Housewives” “Oh, no wonder you were bullied!”

Apparently, in primary school this time, I would come home complaining that I was stood in a playground surrounded by a group of boys taking it in turns to hit me. I have no recollection of this but it might explain why as an adult the idea of playing piggy in the middle is anything but scary although, of course, in an entirely different and less appropriate context. Jokes aside, exactly what at the age of ten was I supposed to have done to “deserve” that?

Having said this, I find myself remembering all the times I’ve uttered those words myself. Even whilst going through bullying I found I looked at all the school "losers" - after all, I wasn't a loser I was just camp. At least I was popular with some people and that's all that counts, right? - and thinking God why don't you just stop being weird and people will leave you alone? Why don't you just sit in silence and ignore them instead of going crazy and screaming at them, giving them what they want? Even I, at the height of being tormented for not fitting the mould, continually judged those who didn't know how to "control" the bullies. And I’ll admit that it still goes through my mind today; a classic example of the bullied turning to bullies (I’m sure a lot of people reading this will know how nasty I can sometimes be about those I, hands up, perceive to be weaker)

My favourite book to rabbit on about is The Chimp Paradox by Steve Peters because it talks with such depth about the darker sides of human nature that we’d rather pretend are reserved for sociopaths; like our DNA-led instinct to freeze out anyone who doesn’t fit into our pack. After all, we pack together for protection so anyone who doesn’t fit out pack is naturally a threat. Or, moreover,
the rest of the pack doesn’t want them around so we must weed out the weak in order to survive. All too often we can see this in the behaviour of young children who haven’t yet had social decencies embedded into them and so, to a degree, I forgive the morons who were nasty at a young age. But I don’t forgive the ones who grew up to know better and would still today peddle the same excuse; “well you were kind of asking for it”

Last month Gay Times featured an openly gay man named Riyadh who confronted his school bully on the phone (link here: http://ow.ly/SOyhD) and the bully's response was “I think If you’d pulled me aside I wouldn’t have kept going at you. I obviously couldn’t stop everyone else from doing it. It’s secondary school. You just have to take it on the chin.” Horrifyingly this is something I have told myself countless times, you have to take it on the chin, but something that I will no longer accept. One of my own worst bullies - once I had officially come out been outed - approached me one day to ask if I was "really gay"; fearing the worst I simply sighed and told him I was. To my surprise, and still puzzlement, he just said "oh okay. That's alright you know. I only took the piss out of you before because I thought you were a camp straight guy so you had it coming to you" Er…what?!
And so, two pages and a lot of rambling in,, you may be asking exactly what the tone of this post is. Me too. I’m still not sure but I do know that after the weeks it’s taken me to write this post, after the self-obsessed soul searching, the late night “wont everyone just think I’m whining to get sympathy? Hasn’t everyone gone through this?”, I find myself taking a vow to ban “they were asking for it” from my terminology. No matter how ugly their shoes are; no matter how many guys that girl went home with; doesn’t matter if that kid screams and pulls out his own hair just at the chant of his own name. They’re not asking for it. Nobody asks for that kind of torment at such a young age ever. Nobody asks for that judgement on their “poor choices”. Human nature is no excuse because, though I may have risen from the ashes like a feisty gay phoenix, sadly the 52% of young LGBTQ people who’ve sought help for self-harm may not have. Sadly the 44% of young LGBTQ who’ve contemplated suicide may not have either*. And tragically the many more young LGBTQ people who choose to end their lives never will. Contrary to popular belief it is not now “okay” for LGBTQ children in school these days; it’s a much happier place for many I’m sure. But we’re certainly a long way from home.

To conclude, 12 years on, along with my new vow I find myself asking what advice I would give to 13 year old me trying to lower his voice to sound more manly, trying desperately to resist the urge to chant "don't-make-me-click-in-a-z-formation" and waking up each day with one singular mission: today I must act like a boy. Well it’s “ Fuck 'em”. Don't keep quiet to stop them noticing you; don't stare furiously at your text book as a pikey twat has a fifteen minute argument with the science teacher because he refuses to sit next to you; don't hurry to your desk when you're faced with sick noises as you walk into a classroom; don’t stand for it when other boys dunk a foam football in a muddy puddle and then throw it square into your face. Put your ballet shoes on, whack out a triple pirouette and kick them in their ugly, chavvy gobs... And then click in a Z formation, ok?


*Figures according to LGBT charity Metro, based on a survey of 7000 16 to 24 year olds

Cya, Sugar

Though I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, I told myself this summer would finally be the summer I walk out of the pool glistening like a Davidoff advert and showing off my chiselled 6-pack. The reality was that I looked down and realised I hadn't reached any of my goals for a toned body because I haven't stopped eating crap ...I've just exercised and maintained the same "skinny fat" shape. So whilst struggling with both weight and writers block, I thought like a true artist and decided I should put myself through, and therefore write about, something so challenging, gruelling and demanding on both mind and body that I'm bound to win a Pulitzer. 

I decided to go cold turkey on sugar.  

I know, right. Single-handedly tackling this country's obesity problem. 

Part One: The First 8 Days 

DAY ONE: 

11.14 - I swear to God I feel ill; I know that’s ridiculous and it’s all in my head (and I’ve just got back to work after ten days in Marbella) but I really do feel shaky. 

12.31 - So what the fuck do I have for lunch? 

I’m getting a cold sore. I’m actually getting a fucking cold sore. I haven’t had a cold sore since I was about ten. This is disgusting!  …I wonder if you can rub sugar directly on to a cold sore? 

21.00 Oh wow, just read that sugar travels to your brain on the same path that heroin does. I’m on a heroin withdrawal like Mimi out of Rent. Can just imagine by day four that I’m going to be wandering around the apartment clutching a tea light and singing “Would You Light My Candle?” on the hunt for a Dairy Milk wrapper to suck. 

DAY TWO: 

7.15 - I thought this diet was supposed to aid a better night's sleep. I, on the other hand, have woken up thinking my phone's having an actual joke with the alarm. It cannot be the morning. No. I've only just lay down. 

9.21 -  So the crankiness has set in. It’s like I have no filter! I can't believe this is what two days of sugar withdrawal does to a person.  

12:01 - Seriously, though, what the fuck do I have for lunch? Soup is full of sugar, apparently,  

12:25 - Ooo grilled salmon has only 0.1g of sugar (AND 13G OF FAT?!) 

12:30 - Fuck it I'm having microwaved grilled salmon. But with what? Research into other people who've done this tells me I'm supposed to sprinkle things like "carob beans" on to home caught fish (sorry, let me just get my spear out and go stabbing in the Bridgewater Canal) with a handful of fresh kale. Anyone who genuinely knows what a carob bean is come see me so that we can stop being friends. 

13:30 - in the aisle of The Co-op - WHY DOESN'T ANYWHERE FROZEN MICROWAVABLE GRILLED SALMON?!  

21:00 - I've been shopping but only lasted about two hours. And eating something actually only made my energy levels dip even more because there was no sugar in it. Clearly my personal sugar addiction was much worse than first thought.  

21:30 - I have had to get in to bed. Like I've actually had to because I sat down on it and couldn't get back up again. Surely this is all in my head? Sugar can't physically affect a person this much...can It? 

DAY THREE: 

7.15 - Another morning of waking up to thinking I've only just gone to sleep. When does the "oh my God you wake up feeling completely different" shit start? 

11:50 - Very nearly buckled at the sight of some strawberry pencils at work. I could so easily chow down on a strawberry pencil or four but it's only been three days and I would love, for once in my life, to actually complete a goal (without minor cheats along the way). I have instead opted for a handful of Snackrite pretend Pringles that are actually only <0.1g sugar per 30g! They're full of salt and other shit but give a fuck because I'm not on a diet I'm on a sugar boycott. They are not one in the same.

17.50 - So I've taken a tiny foot off the bandwagon (trust me, I've been known to dive spectacularly off it so this is pretty good) by having barbecue sauce on my meatballs for dinner. To be fair I figured it's probably not that sugar-ific until I researched and found there's, on average, around 10g of sugar in one serving. Shit. 

DAY FOUR: 

12:59 - Whoever the fucker was that thought It's acceptable to bin/steal/move the tin opener in the office kitchen needs to get their fucking head sorted. I've just had to spend 20 minutes of my life using a pair of scissors to stab open a tin of tuna to put on my measly salad. Symptom check: yes, irrational bursts of anger are still very much present. 

DAY FIVE - SEVEN:  

7am-11pm - Abyss. 

7am - 11pm - miserable darkness salvaged, ever so slightly, by vodka and slim line tonic. Lots of Iit. 

7am - 11pm - hangovers are shit with no sugar but I'm starting to feel a bit...normal?! 

DAY EIGHT: 

9:30 - Feeling incredibly smug after walking past a sign for Oreo, Peanut Butter, Banana Nutella and Ferrero Roche milkshakes and not even quivering slightly. Every morning I walk past that sign on the way to work and this is the first time I haven't slowed to a time-lapse pace to deliberate having one as a 'breakfast snack'; James 1, Sugar 0. 

10.56 - Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. Except for the dribble falling on to my keyboard. It's my colleague's 40th birthday and there's a tray of cupcakes, a red velvet cake, a strawberry and white chocolate cake (my favourite) and a shit tonne of Haribo. I can live without the Haribo but fuck me...red velvet cake. COME ON! 

11.00 - I will not eat those cakes. I treated myself to wine at the weekend and glared at the biscuit tin for two days. I will not fall now. I will not eat those cakes. 

11.02 - I could have half a cake. 

11.03 - I will not have half a cake. 

11.10 - I ate one cupcake. I hate me.